


I Want You Now

by CaptainSlow



Series: Coming Back To You Universe [1]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: M/M, absolute unrestrained want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24703270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSlow/pseuds/CaptainSlow
Summary: Perfect, Richard thinks absently, so now this makes him the guilty party – it is he who has shown some initiative and this sly bastard simply consents to accept whatever is offered as long as he doesn't mind it.Feeling B days; blond skinny Paul justifies it all.
Relationships: Richard Kruspe/Paul Landers
Series: Coming Back To You Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785925
Comments: 14
Kudos: 55





	I Want You Now

_My heart is aching_ _  
My body is burning  
My hands are shaking  
My head is turning_

_You understand it's so easy to choose  
We've got time to kill, we've got nothing to lose_

_I want you now.*(c)_

_Could it be a delusion? Could it be that tonight he's been drinking too much and started seeing things that are taking place nowhere but in his own imagination?_ Richard wonders, both unnerved and yet somehow perversely excited by what seems to be happening.

There are people around, most of whom he doesn't even know, lots of alcohol, even more cigarette smoke. Actually, so much of the latter that he can hardly distinguish the faces around. Except one, though, whose eyes seem to have been burning holes in Richard throughout the entire evening. Those smiling eyes, mockingly watching him from the other end of the room, visible even despite the amount of fumes that are swirling in the space between the two of them. It stirs something in Richard, that intense, almost insolent, stare he feels on himself from time to time. It has been like this during these past few weeks since the moment they were introduced to each other, Richard and the owner of those bold grey eyes which seem huge on his rather gaunt face. And this something, as Richard has had the chance to learn by now, excites him in a very uncomfortable way.

Tonight, though, he has little trust in his own eyesight – he's not quite sober, he keeps telling himself, trying to shake off the delusion that has been haunting him all evening. One moment he feels how that impudent glance is literally crawling all over his skin, but as soon as he raises his eyes, ready to meet the ones on the other side of the room, they are looking at anything or anyone but him, repeatedly leaving Richard to question the reality of the situation and his own sanity.

The man in question doesn't seem to take any notice of him right now, so Richard allows himself to stare through the haze to his heart's content, struggling to distinguish the features of his cheerful face with that million-dollar grin as if glued to it. He wonders if making a clown of himself could be his favourite pastime, or whether he is a _human being_ after all, at times taking his smile off. As if to mock Richard's thoughts even more, his laughter sharply pierces the air, as jolly as ever, while his eyes absently examine the room, sliding past him on their way, with ever so much indifference. If only he were a girl, Richard would bet that he's flirting, but since he very much isn't one, his motives are a mystery. The thought of possible flirting, however, echoes somewhere deep in the pit of Richard's stomach surprisingly and frighteningly pleasantly.

The guy is lounging on a couch in the farthest corner from him, chatting to those bandmates of his Richard has just recently got to know, carelessly jerking his leg and sipping his beer, and Richard realises he has lost count of the bottles he has killed off tonight. And why the hell would he even keep track? Probably because he can only envy how sober the man looks every time he gives him one of those unreadable glances.

Richard can see a pale sliver of his skin, right where the cuff of his sock ends and the hem of his trousers' leg has ridden up, and finds himself intensely staring at it, not really able to collect his thoughts. In all sincerity, he couldn't quite say exactly what he is thinking about. About how his endless chatter, laughter and silly behaviour is irritating, especially that insufferable ability to make fun of everyone in a way that sometimes is plainly cruel? Or maybe about the fact that he can't take his eyes off this annoying leprechaun, hasn't been able for weeks, actually, and this is just as annoying as his never-ending jokes?

The name of the irritant is Paul, and Richard had the misfortune – or was it a good fortune, after all? – to meet him a few weeks ago, along with a horde of his mates, collectively known as _Feeling B_. He occasionally occupies himself with yelling on stage, which doesn't concern Richard at all; plays the guitar, which is a little more interesting; and happens to be a sound tech, which is clearly quite useful. A good sound tech too, Richard was told, but his talents are not what appeals to him at the moment. _Not at all._

He stares at Paul more intently, trying to understand what the fuck is going on, whether there is something wrong with him, or, more likely, with Paul; or, maybe even with the very air in this city. Could it be that that everyone he's met here so far is a little bit off their rocker?

Paul's hair is a bleached mess collected into a semblance of a ponytail at the back of his neck, his earring glimmers every time he moves his head in yet another fit of untroubled laughter. He is excruciatingly thin, almost as scrawny as his friend who constantly hangs around him – Flake – but that particular one is at least tall, and on top of everything else, Paul isn't. Richard would probably say that he's seriously hooked on some drug or other if it wasn't for the fact that he looks quite healthy with that pretty blush on his cheeks. And now it's about time he asked himself since when he calls other individuals of the male species _pretty_.

_But this one is, damn him!_

Since he's still very busy pretending that he doesn't pay any of his precious attention to Richard, the latter takes his chance and lets his gaze slowly travel up from his crossed legs, the sharp knees clearly defined beneath the fabric of his pants, and admittedly, it has to be said that he isn't small everywhere, judging from how those trousers he's wearing are creasing around the area of his crotch. It isn't the first time Richard's eyes dart to that particular part of his body, as if by their own will, and he finds himself wondering what is hidden there, underneath that light material. He refuses to question himself about the reasons of such thoughts, partly because he's already failed to come up with an answer, and not only once, and partly because a flat, nasty voice in his head whispers that he won't particularly like it anyway. He is inclined to believe it so he simply continues to stare, unable to pull his eyes away from those skinny legs, the protruding collar bones, and the gentle profile Paul has, his hair giving him a very delicate, almost feminine, look. Maybe that is exactly the excuse for Richard's emotional turmoil over these past few weeks, the sheer fragility of the guy which is inexplicably enticing.

After a while of such observations, Richard finds it's got so hot and stuffy in here that he definitely wouldn't mind a breath of fresh air, and he most definitely would mind it even less if some sweet girl accompanied him and helped him take away the tension that has accumulated in his nether regions while he was watching… Paul, of all people. Simultaneously perplexed and annoyed, Richard is just about to decisively leave the stool he's occupying when that sticky gaze he couldn't mistake for anyone else's homes in on him yet again. He doesn't want to look up, he doesn't want to meet his eyes, he needs to go, he--

…but it turns out he's unable to fight it, and so Richard gives in, helplessly locking his eyes with Paul’s. This time, unexpectedly, the latter doesn't immediately break off the visual contact as he has been doing during the entire evening but stares back, almost complacently, to Richard's utter surprise and even greater confusion _licking_ his lips. Only an almost imperceptible flick of his tongue, of which he might not even be aware himself, but Richard can see it as clearly as if the space of the room between them didn't exist. All he has left to do is wonder if he's imagining things again, or whether Paul really just did that. And if he did, what the hell it means. That is, if it means anything at all, and it's not just Richard himself slowly going insane.

The problem is, all these subtle signs are really blatantly obvious, and in a different situation with a person of the opposite gender Richard would have long got the hint and made advance at her. That said, it's not a _her_ this time, so wrapping his head around the fact that Paul indeed might just be hitting on him is a tricky business.

Before Richard has time to reflect on that too much, though, Paul gets up, says something to the thin guy beside him, and with that smug smile still lingering on his lips, gives Richard one final glance, walking off leisurely towards the restrooms. Not a living soul around Richard knows how hard it suddenly is to make himself keep still in his place on the stool beside the bar and not to dart off in the same direction. However, the thoughts about what the hell he's going to do once he catches up with Paul cool him off a little, and that is at least enough to make him sit still for another half a minute or so, until he makes sure that Flake is once again busy chatting to somebody and that no one is looking his way.

He follows Paul through the room which is so dense with smoke that he's not sure he can see where he's going. Or, more likely, it's due to the amount of alcohol he has downed tonight while watching that constantly giggling fiend, his head so light that he wonders if he's able to keep in a straight line or whether he's swaying on his way. Only upon reaching the restroom, Richard realises he still doesn't really know what it is exactly that he wants from Paul, and that makes him freeze up for a fleeting moment before he finally pulls the door open. The cruelly amused voice inside his head whispers that, _oh buddy, you do know_ , but Richard shuts it off. If he really does know, he'd rather continue to ignore the elephant in the room until he absolutely cannot help it.

"What the hell do you want from me?" Richard asks straight away, the moment he walks through the doorway into the small, stinking and very dusky bathroom, the floor of which is littered with cigarette stubs.

Probably, he doesn't come across as the most polite person in Berlin, but that isn't on his list of concerns right now – he has always considered attack to be the best sort of defence, and this is the perfect moment to test that theory. He's not going to give Paul the opportunity to be the first to ask questions here. This way, he might at least succeed in throwing the man off his game, whatever it is.

What Richard realises next is that Paul must have been waiting for him, he knew he would follow, damn him – he can easily tell it from the expression of his face. Paul is leaning against one of the doors of the stalls, hugging himself across the waist with one arm, the other brought up to his lips, a cigarette stuck in between his thumb and index finger. Richard's not even surprised to find that he is giving him that _Mona Lisa_ smile once again, but it's unnerving because, just like in case of Mona Lisa, Richard doesn't have the slightest clue as to what's on his mind. Is he drunk or stoned or something? Is he even aware of what he is doing to Richard, physically and emotionally, eyeing him in this shamelessly provocative way?

"I don't know," Paul finally exhales, letting out a grey cloud of smoke through his half-parted lips, and Richard lets his gaze linger on them for a little too long.

In his defence, though, he can say that the man's got a beautiful mouth, tempting with that elusive half-smile plastered to it. To his confusion, Paul obviously notices his open stare, leaving him hoping that he at least can't read his thoughts.

"You followed me here, Richard. What do _you_ want, huh?"

He feels as if he'd just been slapped across the face and swept by a heatwave as a swarm of tingles scurries up along his spine when hearing Paul say his name in his soft, quiet, somewhat murmuring voice.

"You _wanted_ me to follow, didn't you?" Richard asks, keeping up this absurd conversation since he has nothing else to say, really. Is there any chance to lie something? Is there a need to lie?

It is the first time they have been left on their own, face to face, without anyone else scampering around, and it feels like the very air in this closed space is getting electrified as the seconds tick by, neither of them saying anything. The alcohol in Richard's blood is making him hot and, probably, stupidly brave. He can't say whether Paul feels the same or not, but his eyes are glittering a bit too feverishly as he fixes them on Richard's face – big and unusually dark in this half-light.

"I did," Paul smirks at last, resting the back of his shaggy head against the stall door and taking another long, lazy drag from his cigarette.

He obviously wants to seem confident, but his gestures give him away completely – his arms are crossed in front of his body, and, for all Richard can judge from what scarce knowledge of human psychology he possesses, he is trying to protect himself despite the mocking smile on his lips and the cocky stare of his eyes.

The attempt at conversation has quite clearly failed, and the silence seems to have been dragging on for too long as each of them is studying the other one closely. Richard has no reason whatsoever to start a quarrel with him, nor would he like to, and there's nothing to discuss since they barely know each other, and especially not in these surroundings. Apparently, Paul has nothing he wants to tell, and there's equally nothing Richard has to say to him. The situation is getting ridiculous, and he realises there's only one sensible thing he should do – leave this place and go out for a breath of fresh air just as he planned to before either of them does something stupid, but…

There's always a damn _but_.

Suddenly, the madness that's been possessing him for weeks takes over him again with renewed force, and for a fleeting moment, this slender guy with his huge eyes and nervous hands stops being Paul, a fellow Richard was introduced to not long ago, the guitarist and sound tech and whatnot. Instead, he turns into some kind of fancy delicacy, something different, something Richard has never tasted before, exotic and thus even more tempting. He feels an urge to try it, immediately, to bite off a little piece and savour it on the tip of his tongue, to derive pleasure from the process and make it last. 

And, strangely, one moment is more than enough to let Richard make up his mind. He knows what he wants right now, has wanted for a while, this taunting longing he's been feeling – he wants Paul, and this yearning and tension inside of him are becoming too strong to resist. Richard wonders what his skin tastes like and if it is as smooth as it looks. He wonders how soft his lips are and how it might feel if he lets that sharp tongue of his slip in between his own. He wonders what things it will be able to do there. He wants to know how hot his body will feel against his palms if he sneaks them underneath the hem of his sweater and how many protruding bones he will be able to count just sliding them along his spine.

Doing his best to swallow his nervousness but unable to resist the force that's drawing him to this small, skinny guy, Richard takes a few hesitant steps towards Paul. He remains silent – he still has no idea what he should be saying in this situation, maybe nothing at all is the best option – but inside his head there is a heated monologue, almost a prayer of some sort, a plea, an order, all calling out to Paul.

_Don't say a word. Don't move away. Don't shun me. Let me do it. Please._

Luckily, Paul does nothing at all, and the only thing moving are his eyes, widening as Richard lets his fingers cautiously encircle his wrist. It is so thin that it feels fragile in his hand, and contrary to what he thought, rather cool to the touch. With Paul being a few inches shorter, it makes him lean his head back just a tad so that he can set his eyes in level with Richard's. The light from the sorry excuse for a lamp hanging from the ceiling falls onto his face then, and only now does Richard actually notice how beautiful they are, dark, deeply grey, viewing him expectantly from under the half-lowered eyelids. His face is so close that Richard can feel Paul's warm breath on his lips, mildly smelling of beer and, unmistakeably, weed.

He's unusually quiet and he closely watches Richard's every move, as if waiting for what is coming next.

 _Perfect_ , Richard thinks absently, so now this makes him the guilty party – it is he who has shown some initiative and this sly bastard simply consents to accept whatever is offered as long as he doesn't mind it.

Richard is still certain that the most reasonable thing to do would be turn around and leave, run like hell before it's too late, but Paul's eyes are so compelling that it is hard to draw his gaze away from them, let alone actually step away from the man himself, and in a couple of heartbeats it is hopelessly late for Richard to resist the temptation. There’s no way back from this point anymore, and he cannot honestly say that he would like to backtrack now, once he has got the chance to catch the scent of Paul's breath on his face. Nope, this ship, along with his opportunity to escape, has sailed. Thinking has to be done later since the part of his brain which should be responsible for that process is hopelessly blocked from its normal operations. Probably due to lack of blood supply which, judging by the sudden discomfort in his pants, is apparently busy making a completely different region of his body think instead of his head.

Paul seemingly doesn’t mind Richard flicking the cigarette he has been clutching between his fingers away in the direction of the sink behind his back, curiously shifting his gaze between Richard's eyes and his mouth. The scent of his skin is dizzying, and, after a shallow breath, Richard is finally close enough to be able to let out a quivering, convulsive exhale right against Paul's neck. The softest of sounds that he hears in response, just above his ear, a quiet, trembling sigh, makes his fingers clamp down on the fabric of Paul's jumper and pull him towards himself until his slender body all but clings to his own. He can register no resistance whatsoever, quite the opposite, Paul appears to be willingly surrendering himself, throwing back his head and thus giving Richard access to his throat. Unable to decline the invitation, the latter hungrily presses his open mouth against the warm skin which vibrates from Paul's quickened heartbeats right beneath his lips.

As if enchanted, Richard lets them linger at his trembling larynx, kissing the coarse skin just under his chin, then allows his tongue to travel all the way up to a spot behind his ear, Paul's earring feeling almost cold against his flushed face, and then leave a trail of saliva behind, smearing it with his lips. He tastes salty. He tastes absolutely different from what Richard is used to. He tastes like a man should; like the sin they are about to jump headfirst into right now.

He tastes absolutely wonderful.

It nearly drives Richard out of his mind when he finally gets to what has been holding his attention for weeks on end – Paul's lips. They are soft. And wet. And warm. And oh so accommodating and supple at the same time that he moans right into that fumbling kiss they are sharing, so forbidden but so desired. Neither of them is accustomed to the other, which makes them clash and fumble and fight for dominance. It feels like a fever has come over him – he is equally hot and cold, his legs are shaking and his cheeks are burning, and Paul's gasping breaths that now and then caress his face are making his condition even more frantic.

All Richard feels like doing now is closing his eyes and giving in to this sweetest madness completely, but one wish prevents him from doing so – he wants to see everything, every little detail, every single glance full of anguish Paul rewards him with. So he keeps his eyes open, observing his face so very close to his own, watching how their saliva glistens on his lips, how his eyelashes flutter and how he screws up his eyes as Richard sucks on the sensitive spot just below his ear lobe. Paul bucks his hips, breathing a desperate curse into Richard's ear, intensifying the friction between their bodies by gripping at the belt of Richard's pants and thus keeping him in place. The sensation of the distinguishable hard bulge at his crotch that rubs against Richard's hip seems to take his breath away in an instant as another throb of anticipation shots through his own groin.

Richard isn't sure he is able to give account of his actions, being possessed by desire which is threatening to drive him insane if he doesn't get the chance to feel Paul's arousal against his own skin. _Immediately_. It is only by some miracle that he manages to push open the door of the stall behind Paul's back, nearly sending both of them careening right down onto the floor inside it.

"I want you," Paul angrily hisses right into Richard's ear in that thick Berliner accent of his, clawing at the belt of his trousers like a wild cat.

In his turn, Richard does his best to get a grip of it too, trying to help him get rid of the obstructing garment, but his hands are shaking and moist with sweat and they slide in vain over the smooth metal buckle.

"Damn," he swears when he accidentally pinches his finger on the zipper in all the fuss. " _Damn_!" he curses again, much more desperately, as he feels the coolness of Paul's nimble fingers sneaking in under the waistband of his underwear and slipping right underneath it to grope his behind.

He does it with such possessiveness as if Richard was no one other but some girlfriend of his who he's necking in some shady alley.

But, to his genuine surprise – and oh, is there an end to them tonight – being handled like that feels good. Hell, it feels _perfect_ , the grip of Paul's hands so strong it is almost painful, nothing similar to a gentle feminine touch. As heavenly as it feels, though, Richard has to move back a little – he just needs to see it with his own eyes, Paul's hot, hard flesh, still obscured from his view by a few layers of fabric. How many times has he tried to imagine the outlines of what is just silhouetted through the thin material of his pants, wondering about the size and shape, and then averting his eyes in confusion, refusing to admit it even to himself? Admit that he was nothing short of fixated on this petite show-off and his so inexcusably appealing body.

Richard is still exhilarated, but, strangely enough, his hands aren't betraying his anymore, instead letting him confidently deal with the button and zipper and finally relieve Paul's hard-on from the trap of his clothes. In just a moment, which to Richard seems to drag for way too long in his agitated state, Paul's cock is finally in his hand, so remarkably hard and hot and smooth. Utterly stupefied, with the greatest care he can muster, Richard slowly slides his fingertips up its length, ending up rubbing the oozing moisture over its tip with his thumb, cautiously pulling down the delicate skin that is hiding it from view. He realises he's all but got mesmerised only when Paul's quiet, almost plaintive, sigh reaches his ears. Slowly, Richard shifts his gaze from the glistening tip of Paul's cock up to Paul's face, meeting his huge, dark, clouded eyes. His lips are just inches away, parted, dry and oh so enticing. They were made for kisses, all kinds of them – from featherlight touches to passionate, hungry smooches, and Richard can't deprive himself of the pleasure to leave one of them on his chaffed mouth.

"You're not small everywhere, huh?" he whispers just before his lips finally reach Paul's, his own voice sounding improperly hoarse even to his own ears.

He can't help himself once he lets his palm enclose that leaking throbbing flesh, enjoying the way Paul hums something desperately obscene back into their kiss. He is indeed big, Richard notices, for some reason even more thrilled by this fact; especially erected and fully engorged in his hand, resting against Paul's hollow stomach with those protruding hip bones, which are finally visible as the man's pants are halfway down his legs. By way of reply, Paul simply lets out another suppressed, incoherent string of curses as Richard lets his thumb rub the moisture off the tender skin once again. It is strangely fascinating and unusual to be able to hold a cock that isn't his own, to be able to feel the smooth flesh against his own palm but without actually feeling the sensation which would correspond to his own groin.

Paul's brow is damp with sweat as Richard presses his lips to his temple, at last getting hold of both of them, the heat of Paul's skin almost scorching against his own, and it drives him virtually delirious as he starts to move his hand. Slowly at first, trying to get accustomed to the odd but no less pleasant sensation, and then quickening the pace until his skin seems to be burning from the dry touch.

His nostrils are full of Paul's scent – the faint one of his skin, oddly enough having a vague smell of soap still clinging to it; of sweat, of his breath, cigarettes and beer and weed, of his hair saturated with the smoke of the stuffy room they have left, and the distinct smell of sex. He wants every single one of the aromas for himself, so he hungrily licks Paul's neck, his cheeks and his lips, now that he has nothing to be afraid of since it definitely seems like both of them enjoy what is going on in this closed space of a filthy bathroom stall. Paul's hands are free, though, and they have long lingered on Richard's buttocks, vigorously groping just a minute ago, and now simply squeezing them with his, for once, hot fingers as his climax is inevitably approaching. He is doing his best to suppress his moans, hiding his face in the crook of Richard's neck, and they come out as muffled, strained and quivering, on the verge of breaking out into full blown groans, which makes them only more arousing to hear.

The pleasure they have both been rushing to so uncontrollably stains their bodies, clothes and Richard's cramped up fingers after what might have been an eternity as well as just a few minutes. He still feels reluctant to let go of Paul's flesh, squeezing the last drops out of the flushed skin, every touch making the man shudder in Richard's arms and muffle yet another beautiful sound into his shoulder. For some reason, hearing Paul being so utterly unhinged makes Richard's own legs tremble.

It feels incredibly good, more satisfying than he could possibly have ever imagined. It is even almost soothing, as if with every single stroke of his hand on his and Paul's cocks, the tension he has built up in the past few weeks is slowly draining from him, and the more kisses and caresses they share, the more at peace he becomes.

It is very quiet in here now, save for the running water in the next-door stall, subdued voices from the outside world and their gradually recovering breathing. He can feel Paul's moist temple against the side of his throat, how his hair tickles his skin and how his hands reluctantly leave his butt, only to move up a bit and linger at his waist, his thumbs drawing invisible circles over Richard's skin, just beneath the hem of his shirt. It is so strangely serene that he realises he doesn't have the slightest desire to move – he would gladly spend hours like this, enjoying this weird, trance-like condition, without any unnecessary words or explanations of what has just taken place here. The only thing he could possibly wish for is to somehow teleport away from this stinking bathroom to his bed and just doze off, still basking in this wonderful post-coital bliss.

"I'm not…" Paul suddenly whispers after a while of comfortable mutual silence and uncertainly trails off in the middle of what he wanted to say, not a hint of his previous jaunty mockery left in his quiet voice.

"I know," Richard replies without hesitation, even though he's far from knowing anything after what has just happened here, it seems. And he's not sure he even wants to. "I'm not, either."

After another few seconds tick by measured by the gentle warbling of the running water, Richard finally dares to move back a little, just enough so that he could take a look at Paul's face, almost hoping to be met with that sarcastic grin he has so often observed on him. He immediately regrets his action, though, because, to his surprise, he doesn't see the Paul he's got used to seeing over the past few weeks, that constantly laughing demon teasing and pulling jokes on everyone; the infamous smart-ass, opinionated and cynical to the point of being unbearable.

This Paul is utterly and frighteningly different. He isn't smiling, even though there are those barely noticeable, gossamer lines radiating out from the corners of his almond-shaped eyes; he still looks slightly drunk on the recent excitement, and he is silent for once in a lifetime, his lips puffy and blushing from the recent make out session. He looks thoughtful and, apparently, as confused as Richard is.

The realisation suddenly makes him wish for the ground under his feet to open up and swallow him alive this very second as he can literally feel how those wonderful, peaceful moments he has just experienced are slowly turning into a burden that's most likely going to shame him until the end of his days. He opens his mouth, but not a sound comes out, and, belatedly, Richard wonders what exactly he was going to tell Paul now. Excuses? Apologies? Beg him not to tell anyone? This is probably about time his thinking ability returned, but it doesn't, cruelly leaving him to stare back at Paul, dumbstruck and acutely aware of how red his cheeks and ears must be getting.

This torture lasts for a while longer, until a loud slam of the restroom door, somewhere in the world outside this stall they have closeted themselves in, yanks them unexpectedly back into this dimension, and before any of them manages to regain his senses, someone tries to open the door to their cubicle. The intruder pulls at it abruptly, which makes the latch produce a loud rattle.

For a brief moment of pure terror, Richard thinks that _this is it_. The total demise. This will end in shame and disgrace, that is, unless he fights and kills the unwilling witness to save his and Paul's compromised dignity. This little jangle of the bathroom stall door lock is the most frightening sound he has heard in his whole life.

"Sorry!" is heard from the other side of the door a moment later, and somewhere at the back of his utterly terrified consciousness, Richard wonders how on Earth the two of them managed to stay sensible enough to lock the damn door in the first place.

It's hard to breathe now because his wildly beating heart has relocated to somewhere half way up his throat, and Paul's eyes, wide-open and equally terrified, are just inches away, staring back at him with profound dread.

"Shhh…" he soundlessly breathes, pressing his index finger across Richard's lips and shaking his head ever so lightly.

All of a sudden and perhaps not particularly timely, Richard becomes very much aware of the fact that he is locked in a space of no more than six by six feet with another man, his pants pulled down to his knees and his hand and clothes stained with semen, half of which isn't even his. What is more, he can very distinctly feel this other man's softening flesh against his own, his lips are still moistened with Paul's saliva, the taste of it lingering on the tip of his tongue as a cruel reminder of what they have just done. If anyone finds them like this, they are seriously fucked.

By now Richard's face starts to simply glow, even more than it did just a while ago, and he hides it in the crook of Paul's neck, unable to look him in the eye any longer, afraid to make a sound, afraid to breathe properly, afraid that they might be heard, and discovered, and--

The sound of the closing door outside their stall is quite literally akin to a heavenly melody, providing such an intense feeling of relief that, against his will and common sense, Richard starts to choke on laughter, still holding on to Paul and soundlessly shaking against his body. Judging by the soft, suppressed sounds next to his ear, the man is doing the same, his arms still securely wrapped around Richard's waist, and as it seems, not planning on loosening their clench.

And, suddenly, Richard discovers he doesn't mind it at all anymore. This acute, uncontrollable fit of laughter works better than any words ever could – just like that, it seems as if he and Paul have known each other for a long, long time instead of just a few weeks, and what they have just done here is nothing but some prank they played. He's not ashamed anymore, or at least, not as much. Still slightly confused by the initial motives, but who the hell cares about them when the two of them can so easily laugh about it together? Richard does not, and neither does Paul, apparently. The moment to regret anything and make apologies has passed, completely and irrevocably.

"Who locked the fucking door?" Paul asks, still sniggering, and it provokes another fit of giggles which now seem to be on the verge of hysterical.

All Richard manages is to shake his head in reply, showing that he has no goddamn clue.

"Let's get the hell out of here, before anyone else tries to break in again." Paul actually sounds so conspiring that Richard has to do his best not to burst out into laughter yet again, assuming that this must have something to do with his totally frazzled nerves.

"Looking like this I'll have to escape through the back door, I'm afraid," he snorts, shaking his head.

Finally, and somewhat reluctantly, he lets go of Paul's slim hips, wiping his still wet and sticky hand on his pants whilst awkwardly pulling them up at last.

"So will I," Paul agrees, his fingers nimbly dealing with his own zipper. "And I happen to know where the back door is." He flashes Richard his remarkable smile, a little confused but very cheerful nonetheless, and this time, surprisingly, not as mocking as it used to be before. "I also happen to know a place just a few blocks away from here where we could have a drink, if you don't feel like rushing out of here screaming bloody murder after what we've just done."

Doing the latter certainly isn't on Richard's agenda tonight, and even though he indeed dreamed about teleporting to his own bed just a while ago, the moment he hears about a drink, he realises that he's awfully thirsty. And besides, he doesn't really mind Paul's company anymore.

"No, I definitely don't," he can't help another grin in response, as if more laughs can guarantee that tonight everything is going to end up just fine for the two of them. "Let's get out of here."

With occasional sniggers, they finally leave their shelter, stealthily sneaking out of the bathroom like a pair of deuces, but as soon as they reach the dark corridor, Paul so unexpectedly stops dead in his tracks that Richard accidentally blunders right into him.

"What?!" he asks, voice low, when another quiet chuckle reaches his ears.

"I liked that, by the way," Paul says so casually as if he was talking about the weather, his confession making Richard's face heat up a few degrees yet again, and he silently thanks the skies for the darkness around them.

"Fuck's sake!" he snorts, shaking his head, equally annoyed and delighted, and lightly pushes this dainty demon forward, urging him to find that back door he was talking about as soon as possible. "Move, Paul!"

Luckily, they meet no one on their way, and that spares Richard the necessity to hide the suspicious stains on his clothes as well as the absolutely goofy grin plastered to his face.

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, time has come for you to bear with me again because I'm nowhere near done with the two poor sods. This takes place long before the events in the Coming Back To You universe, sometime around '87-'88ish. Could be read as a one-shot, but it actually has a few stories following it, too.  
> (And, shhh, Richard, don't be confused, no one could have possibly resisted that Paul XD)
> 
> *'I Want You Now' by Depeche Mode.


End file.
